


The Wrong Way

by Naralanis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Infidelity, mention of romione, you get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 11:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis
Summary: A relationship between the wrong people begins in the wrong way. How can right can it possibly be?





	The Wrong Way

The first time Hermione had seen Narcissa Malfoy after the war trials was during a dreadfully boring committee meeting at the Department of Mysteries, nearly six years after the Battle of Hogwarts. She had never even known the woman was part of her department, much less that she held the title of Unspeakable. Hermione caught her rolling her eyes thrice in the three-hour long meeting, and eventually she noticed the blonde’s quill moved in far too strange a way to be taking notes. 

After taking a little peek, she noticed it was a doodle—it seemed to be a sinewy snake wrapping Rupert Plaskitt, head of the Department of Mysteries and current speaker at the meeting, in a deadly embrace. 

Hermione had let out a chuckle, which she had to mask as an ill-timed cough. Narcissa caught her gaze, quirked a brow, and promptly put her parchment away. 

“Mrs. Malfoy!” Hermione called after her when the meeting finally ended. A flurry of witches and wizards carrying stacks of parchment flooded her view; Hermione had to wade through the crowd to get to the blonde, who walked remarkably fast. “Mrs. Malfoy!” 

Narcissa let out an exasperated sigh when Hermione finally caught up with her at the lifts. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley?” 

“Hi, hello. Granger, Granger’s fine.” Hermione gasped, out of breath and cringing at the designation. There was not much running to be done in the Department of Mysteries; she felt silly for dashing down the corridor and being breathless with such little exercise. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

Mrs. Malfoy raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “I work here.” 

Hermione felt herself flush, embarrassed her joke had not quite landed. “As do I,” she continued, fumbling over her words. “What I mean is, I never really see you around. What is your subdivision?” 

Narcissa’s expression was unreadable. “Well, there is little reason for a lawmaker such as yourself to meet with Unspeakables.” The asperity of her voice was unmistakable, but she eventually relented with a nonchalant eyeroll. “I work with the Dark Artefacts division.” 

“Oh. Cool,” Hermione said dumbly, unsure why she had run after this woman. Her curiosity could be rather inconvenient at times. “That must be nice. I-uh, I work with Warding Legislature, but I guess you know that. Nice seeing you around.” 

Narcissa looked incredulous, and Hermione wanted to disappear into the bowels of the earth. Why had she run after the witch again? She couldn’t quite find a reason. A lift arrived just then with a loud ding, and the two witches stepped aide to let a small crowd out. Narcissa raised her brow once more, looking intrigued at the blubbering witch. “Good day, Ms. Granger.” 

“Good day.” Hermione responded, watching idly as the lift doors slammed shut between them. 

* * *

The second time Hermione saw Narcissa Malfoy in the Ministry came as a great surprise. She was in her cramped little office, eating a tuna sandwich she had packed that morning as she perused some legal briefs detailing the historical precedents of prison warding regulations. 

There was an impatient knock right as her eyes glazed over skimming Brandley’s Warding Directive of 1698. 

“Cwm nn,” she mumbled through the hearty bite she had taken earlier. 

Hermione nearly choked on her food when Narcissa Malfoy walked through her door as if she did so every day. The woman, clad in dark robes with a Department of Mysteries insignia, strolled into her small office barely sparing Hermione a glance, sitting daintily on one of the mismatched chairs that faced the brunette’s desk. 

“Mrs. Malfoy!” Hermione exclaimed, hastily wiping at her mouth with a napkin. 

Narcissa’s nose crinkled in distaste. “What in Merlin’s name is that stench?” She eyed the remnants of Hermione’s sandwich in plain disgust. “Is that _tuna _? In a closed space?” 

Hermione blushed, covering what was left of her meal in foil. “It’s lunch,” she said defensively. “What brings you to my office, Mrs. Malfoy?” 

Narcissa seemed to still be distracted by the apparent offensiveness of Hermione’s lunch. With a shrug, the brunette dropped it into an open drawer. 

“Appalling,” Narcissa muttered under her breath. Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Narcissa interrupted her. “I need your assistance with a particular project.” 

That grabbed Hermione’s attention. She closed the drawer, sandwich forgotten. “Assistance? In what kind of project?” 

Narcissa leaned back into her seat, elegantly crossing her legs in a way that reminded Hermione of old royalty. She tapped her fingers onto the armrest, clearly rather impatient. 

“I need an expert to... interpret certain wards and determine whether it would be legal for me to breach them, under the right circumstances.” 

The brunette’s eyes widened; her interest piqued. “What kind of wards? Why would you need to breach them?” 

“That’s classified, unless you decide to help,” Narcissa said brusquely. 

Hermione furrowed her brows. “How can I decide if I’m even able to help you if I don’t know what the project entails?” 

“It’s the Department of Mysteries,” Narcissa quipped with an unnecessarily elaborate wave of her hand. “We’re _mysterious._” 

Hermione blinked in utter befuddlement. Did Narcissa just make a _joke _? The blonde sighed, impatient. 

“Very well. I need to breach certain wards in order to retrieve certain artefacts; however, before I do that, I must know whether these artefacts will be admissible as evidence in court considering how they were obtained. It all depends on how the wards have been set up; that is where you come in.” 

“Oh,” Hermione breathed, amazed at how easily the blonde had caved. “Well... no guarantees, but I can take a look.” 

“Splendid,” Narcissa said, standing up as if she could not stand to be in Hermione’s office for even a moment longer. “Meet me in the Atrium tomorrow, eight o’clock sharp.” 

“Will do.” Hermione told her closing door. 

* * *

“Here’s to a job well done!” 

Narcissa rolled her eyes before reluctantly clinking her glass to Hermione’s in the crowded pub. Several Aurors, Unspeakables, and other Ministry officers surrounded them, talking excitedly. 

“Cheer up,” Hermione told Narcissa after a swig of her butterbeer. “You brought in six new convictions for the DMLE—they've gone so long without a single one you’re basically their saviour.” 

The blonde scoffed, eyeing the butterbeer as if it were something foreign. She took a tentative sip, and immediately her face contorted into a scowl of pure disgust. 

“How can you drink this swill?” she questioned with wide eyes. “No, how can you _pay _to drink this swill??” 

Hermione laughed, finding Narcissa’s antics more amusing than usual. It was probably the alcohol and the euphoria of closing so many cold cases left over from the war. “Some of us didn’t grow up drinking fancy honey-wines and fine whisky,” she said with a waggle of her brows. “And hey, this ‘swill’ gets the job done.” 

“If the job is inebriation, I’m inclined to agree.” Narcissa conceded with a smirk. “Though it is sorely lacking in terms of taste. You must try some of the selections at the Manor’s wine cellars sometime—I could even be persuaded to let you try them for free.” 

Hermione turned to Narcissa, dumbfounded. “Are you—” she hiccoughed “— are you actually inviting me to come taste some of your wine?” 

Narcissa swirled her butterbeer in her glass, shrugging. “You’ve clearly never had the chance to properly develop your palate,” she said feigning sadness, bringing a hand to Hermione’s shoulders in faux pity. “You poor, uneducated rube.” 

“Hey!” Hermione exclaimed, standing a little too fast. She stumbled over her own stool, nearly collapsing over the table if not for Narcissa’s arm around her waist. She turned in the blonde’s arm, a bit flustered and dizzy. “This rube just helped you out with the catch of the century. Be nicer to the rube.” 

Narcissa laughed, openly laughed, for the first time, and Hermione was a little mesmerised by it. It was a delightful throaty sound, a pleasant ring that reverberated in her eardrums. She carefully turned Hermione in her loose embrace so that the brunette could sit again; her voice came in an amused drawl at Hermione’s ear. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

* * *

The first time Hermione was invited over to Malfoy Manor, it was to help Narcissa sort out a surprisingly messy library. She had been suitably impressed with the magnificent floor-to-ceiling shelves and the intricate patterns carved onto their dark wood, a little less impressed with the utter chaos of books littering every surface that was not a bookshelf. 

At some point, she and Narcissa had stumbled upon several old photo albums. 

“This one looks like you.” Hermione quipped, pointing at a particular picture in a particularly dusty album. 

Narcissa leaned closer, looking over her shoulder. “That would be because that _ s _me.” She said, pointing at the little baby in a rather ludicrously adorned crib, flanked by a horde of family members. 

“Oh.” Hermione looked at the photo again. “You were very bald.” 

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, babies are seldom cute soon after they are born.” 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Hermione agreed, flipping through another page. “This is _horrible _of me to say, but when the Healers brought Rose back to me, my first thought was ‘oh Merlin, _really??’” _

Narcissa let out a rather inelegant guffaw of laughter. It pleased Hermione greatly. 

“Great Salazar,” Narcissa gasped breathlessly between bursts of hearty laughter. “You’re a horrible mother!” 

Hermione tossed the photo album at her, grumbling with slight annoyance when Narcissa caught it with seeker-like reflexes. 

“Am not!” She countered, laughing despite herself. “I was just surprised! I had never seen a new-born before.” She narrowed her eyes at Narcissa. “You can’t say Draco was any cuter when he was born.” 

“Oh, yes he was,” Narcissa laughed, wiping a tear from her eye. “He was a perfect little angel from the moment he was born.” 

“Lies.” 

Narcissa laughed for far longer than was appropriate, but Hermione could not bring herself to be mad. She would never admit it, but she loved the sound of Narcissa’s laugh; it was like a breath of fresh air in her dull days, at home and at the Ministry. 

“Thank you for helping sort out this library,” Narcissa said after her laughter had finally subsided. “It sorely needed the help.” 

Hermione shrugged. “Well, I’m a grade-A bookworm,” she joked. “Say ‘library’ and I’m there in a heartbeat.” 

“It is nice to have someone who enjoys books so much helping me around,” Narcissa mused aloud, sorting through several tomes that had been stacked onto the exquisite mahogany tables of Malfoy library. She turned to Hermione. “Have you ever been to the Wizarding Library in Vienna?” 

Hermione shook her head in the negative, delighting in the way Narcissa’s eyes glimmered in the light. “No, I haven’t.” 

“Oh, you absolutely must go. It’s one of the most wonderful places—I’ve been once, as a child, but I never had the opportunity or the occasion to go back.” She frowned a little, and Hermione took her hand. 

“Maybe we can change that, eh? In the meantime, I thought I had an open invite to taste some exquisite wine. What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?” 

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “She can try _asking.” _

Hermione brought a dramatic hand to her chest. “I’ve got to _ask?! _What kind of hostess even are you, Mrs. Malfoy??” 

She smiled widely as the sound of Narcissa’s peals of laughter echoed merrily in the library. 

* * *

The first time Hermione invited Narcissa over to her own home, they had planned on having a few glasses of wine and then going to see some of the Muggle museums Narcissa had never been to. 

“Hello! Welcome! Come in, come in.” Hermione greeted Narcissa at the door of her flat, carrying a sleepy Rose in her arms. “Sorry,” she whispered, bouncing the young girl. “Molly couldn’t take her today; it was kind of last minute...” 

“Nonsense,” Narcissa reassured her. “I just wish you could have told me earlier; I would have brought Draco along for a playdate.” 

Hermione laughed. “Just give me a minute; I’ll put her to bed, and we can have a _quiet _girls’ night in, if that’s alright with you?” 

“Of course,” Narcissa chuckled quietly, idly looking around the modest living room in the Granger-Weasley apartment as Hermione vanished into an adjoining room. It was a modest two-bedroom flat in the heart of London, sparsely but tastefully decorated. As expected, there were books everywhere—on the shelves, side tables, kitchen counter, even in neat piles on the floor. 

Hermione came back to see Narcissa looking curiously at some of the pictures that adorned the mantel of her fireplace. 

“Muggle pictures,” she said, knowing what intrigued Narcissa so. “They don’t move.” 

“No, of course,” Narcissa murmured, turning when Hermione’s approach startled her. “I knew that, but... I don’t really see Muggle pictures a lot.” She pointed to one particular photo, adorned by a jet-black frame. “Your parents?” 

“Yeah,” Hermione confirmed it, taking the picture into her hands. “They’re in Australia now. They... Well, you see, during the war...” 

She felt the gentle pressure of Narcissa’s hand over her shoulder; its warmth and softness were a welcome comfort. 

She should have known she was in trouble then. 

* * *

“Vienna?” Ron asked in-between unnaturally large portions of chicken pot pie. “What for?” 

“For fun, Ronald,” Hermione answered. “Just for a weekend; I’d invite you, but we’re just going to see the historic libraries and you’d be bored out of your mind.” 

He swallowed, pondering. “Why do you need to go to Vienna for a ruddy library?” he questioned, stuffing his mouth again before continuing to speak. “We haff lotff off good libwariesh right her.” 

Hermione tried not to roll her eyes; instead, she gripped her coffee mug a little more tightly. “These are _ historic _Wizarding libraries, with one-of-a-kind tomes that won’t be found anywhere else.” 

Ronald narrowed his eyes, taking a large sip of his pumpkin juice to wash down the impressive amount of chicken he had crammed into his mouth. Hermione silently watched a dribble run down his chin as he pondered her announcement further. 

“And I’ll be stuck babysitting?” 

She sighed, trying to hide her profound annoyance. “It’s _ not _ babysitting, Ronald; she’s your _ daughter. _ That’s called _ parenting.” _

He shrugged his shoulders, and she could have argued the matter further, but she could sense her win. “Alright,” he said, focus returning to his plate of food. “Just leave the cabinet fully stocked with nappies and I’ll hold down the fort.” 

She smiled, still smarting over the babysitting comment but brushing it off, too happy to pick a fight over it in this exact moment. 

“Thank you,” she said honestly, leaning over and dropping a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it!” 

* * *

“Hermione.” 

“Shh.” 

“Hermione.” 

She waved the other witch off. “Shh! One minute!” 

Narcissa laughed, daintily covering her mouth so that the sounds of her giggles did not carry through the empty library. “Hermione, darling, they _ close _in one minute.” 

Hermione bounce on her feet, grasping the sleeve of Narcissa’s robe as if to hold the witch in place. “But, but...” 

Narcissa gently dragged her away, playfully grabbing back at Hermione’s sleeves. “Come along, now—we can always come back another weekend.” 

Hermione frowned, letting herself be pulled away from the superbly carved oak shelf, morosely tearing her eyes away from the gilded tome that had caught her interest. She met a glimmering blue gaze instead, and couldn’t find much reason to complain. 

“We haven’t even seen half of this place!” she complained anyway. 

A finger to her mouth silenced further protestations. Narcissa had a playful look on her face, a smirk tugging at her red lips, and her mirth was contagious. 

“Well,” she drawled, leaning close to Hermione’s ear to whisper conspiratorially. “I suppose that means I’ll just have to steal you away for another weekend.” 

* * *

The first time they had sex should have been during that weekend in Austria, when they had a lavish hotel suite overlooking Wizarding Vienna at their disposal. In reality, it should never have happened in the first place, Hermione surmised as she panted beneath Narcissa, but since it seemed inevitable, they should have done it in Vienna. 

This was not how Hermione had pictured it—and she had dared picture it, in her dreams and most private thoughts, with Ronald sleeping right beside her on the same bed she and Narcissa now defiled. 

She caught a glimpse of her wedding ring as her hands grasped at her loose sheets; it shimmered in the light and the reflection of the beside lamp flickered in her eyes as the bed creaked and shook with their movement. Hermione swallowed her guilt, looking at Narcissa’s left hand that trapped her own. Narcissa wore no ring, even though she was just as married as Hermione was. 

Perhaps having her husband rot away in Azkaban robbed Narcissa of the guilt Hermione now felt in seeing her wedding band engulfed in the blonde’s desperate grip. She felt hands—Narcissa's sinfully soft hands, and her lips, touching, teasing, tasting her with an urgency that betrayed just how _ fucked _this entire thing was. 

Ronald would be home soon, Hermione tried to reason. He would be home any minute now, and he would find his wife bent over their bed with Narcissa Malfoy’s fingers filling her with ease and astounding skill. He would see her laid bare, flushed with her shame and pleasure, making sounds he had never heard before. 

As luck would have it, Ron went out for a butterbeer with friends from work. Molly had Rose and James for the weekend, so Hermione and Narcissa had plenty of time to shower, dress, and even sit down for tea without ever discussing what had just happened. They were still sitting in the living room, with their cups of tea and their books, when Ron stumbled in. 

“Ah, hullo, ‘Mione. Oh, nice t’ see ya too, Ms. Malfoy.” 

Hermione couldn’t speak; her words were stuck in her throat, blocked by what could only be guilt. Narcissa, on the other hand, smiled naturally, offering a hand—did it still smell like her, Hermione wondered—for Ron to shake. 

“A pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Weasley.” 

* * *

“This has to stop.” 

She felt Narcissa’s lips stop their path down her thighs midway. There was a playful nip at the inside of her thigh, then a soothing kiss. Narcissa’s nails teased at her hipbones with gentle scratches. 

“Tell me to stop, and I shall.” Blue eyes narrowed, and those wicked lips reversed their course, going upward instead, passing by Hermione’s hips, her abdomen, all the way to her sternum at an agonizingly slow pace. “But I don’t think you want me to.” 

Hermione let out a shuddering breath as Narcissa’s mouth found the slopes of her breasts and her nails blazed trails across over her ribs. Her hands found Narcissa’s waist, and instead of pushing her away like she was supposed to, she pulled her tighter, closer, losing herself in that forbidden embrace. 

She wanted it to _never _stop. 

“Hmm,” Narcissa hummed in appreciation, nipping at Hermione’s neck. “That’s what I thought.” 

* * *

They were very nearly caught. 

It was completely idiotic—it was bound to be idiotic from the very start, from the very beginning that should have never begun—but they made it through by the skin of their teeth. 

Narcissa had been pushed against Hermione’s—and Ron’s—bedroom door, legs hooked over Hermione’s hips as one of the brunette’s hands held her up from the bottom and the other fumbled desperately between them, trying to fall into a rhythm before Ronald came home. 

It wasn’t Ronald who almost caught them, but Molly, Flooing into the apartment with Rose in tow. 

Hermione had nearly dropped Narcissa in panic. She felt her blood run cold as she heard Molly’s chattering coming ever-so-close. 

“Hermione, dearie, you look feverish!” Molly had exclaimed once Hermione scrambled out of the room, locking Narcissa inside in a desperate dash. “Why are you home from work so early, are you ill?” 

Hermione took the chance, ran away with it. “Yes,” her voice squeaked with the lie leaving her throat. “A bit under the weather; I came home to get some rest.” 

“Oh, then never-mind us! I just forgot Rosie’s diaper bag in your room—don't you worry, dear—Arthur and I will take care of her over the weekend—you just focus on resting.” 

Hermione blanched at the mention of Rosie’s diaper bag, sitting on the ottoman in her room, where a very dishevelled, very married Mrs. Malfoy was hiding. To her relief, Molly simply waved her wand in an elaborate flick, summoning the bag into the living room and immediately slinging it over her shoulder. 

“I’ll come by later with some pumpkin soup, how about that? And I’ll let Ronald know you’re home, he ought to take care of his wife!” 

* * *

“Dere’s sobething you’re dot telling be.” 

Narcissa’s lips tugged into a deep frown. “Good Merlin, you look dreadful!” she hissed in disbelief. “What’s happened to you?” 

Hermione sniffed; her blocked nose did not make it sound pretty. “I habe a cold,” she motioned to her puffy eyes and red, stuffy nose. Narcissa made a big show of stepping around the brunette on her way into the apartment. 

“You should be in bed.” 

“I deeded to talk to you.” 

“Where is your husband?” 

Hermione shrugged. “I gabe him season tickets to the Chuddley Caddons. He’ll be out ebery weekend for the dext two bonths.” 

Narcissa quirked a brow. “You’re getting rather good at this infidelity thing.” 

Hermione frowned, unable to take the joke, but not doing anything to fight it. She wished she could say that the guilt was utterly unbearable, that it was devouring her from within and making her life miserable. In fact, it was quite the opposite: every moment spent with Narcissa was light, refreshing, passionate, loving. 

_ That _ was what ate her up inside: how _ good _she felt when she was with Narcissa. 

“We deed to talk.” 

“And we will,” Narcissa said, shrugging off her cloak and marching straight into the kitchen. An impatient flick of her want put the kettle on, and another summoned Hermione’s pots and pans. 

Hermione ducked a few potatoes that came flying out of her pantry, sending Narcissa a bewildered look. 

“What in Berlin’s nabe are you doing, woban?” 

Narcissa glared at her. “You,” she pointed emphatically at Hermione, “are going to bed. And I” another flick of her wand made the potatoes peel themselves and brought water to a boil, “will make you soup.” 

Hermione gaped, trying desperately to fight the warmth she felt inside. “But, but...” 

“Bed. Now.” 

* * *

“Who is the prettiest, most wonderful little girl in the world? You are! Yes, you!” 

Rose cooed and babbled, chubby little fingers grasping happily at strands of platinum blonde hair. Hermione felt a void in her stomach as Narcissa lifted her daughter up and down from her lap, cooing back at her baby and making funny faces. 

“This is wrong in so many levels.” She murmured over her cup of tea, trying to squash the conflicting feelings of shame and happiness the scene before her evoked. Rose had managed to put a whole tiny fistful of Narcissa’s hair into her mouth, and the blonde did not seem to mind at all. 

Narcissa shrugged at Hermione’s depressing observation. “Well, Molly Weasley can’t take care of her _every _weekend.” 

Hermione narrowed her gaze. “Neither should my _ mistress.” _

Narcissa was unbothered. “Tell me to go, then.” 

Hermione stopped talking, choosing instead to sip at her tea. Rose babbled, and playtime continued, undeterred by the oh so many levels of insanity that fed this very scene. 

* * *

Narcissa cornered her at her office when she was working late one night. She didn’t think it was for some kind of tryst—they had blessedly been able to keep their adulterous rendezvous off work. 

Nevertheless, Narcissa stormed into her office and locked the door behind her, her gaze burning. She was panting, as if she had run there. Hermione didn’t even have time to say a word. 

“Divorce Ronald.” 

The demand hung in the air of Hermione’s small office, cramping the cluttered space with the heavy, deafening silence that followed. Hermione’s breath died in her lungs; the silence tightened her chest and Narcissa’s pleading gaze hung like a noose around her neck. 

“W-what? What on Earth are you talking about?” 

Narcissa stood by the locked door, not daring take another step. “Divorce him,” she repeated, hand still resting on the doorknob, grasping it so tightly that her knuckles went white. “We both know you don’t love him.” Her eyes were downcast. “I know how ashamed you are. What...” her voice fell flat, as if upon leaving her lips it died in the air. “What if you didn’t have to be ashamed?” 

“I... I...” she stuttered. With that one statement, all the guilt she had decidedly _not _felt enjoying those illicit encounters, those forbidden nights with Narcissa, all of it came rushing back, squashing her under a crushing weight. “You must be out of your mind!” 

Narcissa flinched, but her eyes turned resolute. “I must be. And so must you.” She drawled icily. “You love me.” 

“I don’t—you can’t” Hermione stammered, drowning under the rush of feeling, of shame and guilt that overcame her. “You can’t... You can’t _ say _that!” 

Narcissa’s gaze hardened; eyes of a tempestuous grey bored into Hermione’s very soul. “You love me,” she repeated, her voice stronger, surer than before. “Don’t lie to yourself—or to me.” 

Hermione shook her head, gripping the edge of her desk as if it were the only thing holding her upright. 

“Hermione,” Narcissa whispered, her voice losing steam, the power of her own furious certainty, transforming itself into a plea—a confession. “Hermione, I lo-” 

“Don’t _say _that!” Hermione hissed, wanting to cover her ears. She couldn’t let Narcissa say it, she could not let herself _hear _it. “Don’t...” she gasped, surprised to feel the heat of tears in her eyes. “Don’t make this difficult.” 

Narcissa’s grip on the doorknob tightened; it rattled with her force. Her voice rose with every word she spoke. “It’s _already _bloody difficult! How much longer do you want to lie to your husband? How much longer do you think you can go, letting me _ravish _you in your marriage bed or _fucking _me in mine?” 

“Keep your voice down!” Hermione barked, shoulders trembling. She forced her eyes shut, wishing they were not having this conversation. A thought occurred to her. 

“Divorce Lucius, then.” 

Narcissa’s eyes widened, but Hermione did not like the smugness she saw in them. “You want me to sever my magical bond? To dissolve a Pureblood union?” 

“Yes.” Hermione bluffed, because there was no way. Narcissa was a practical woman; Pureblooded unions were specifically designed, their bonds expertly crafted to prevent divorce from ever happening. Going around all of that would not be worth Narcissa’s time. 

To her surprise, Narcissa only smiled sadly. “For you? Done.” 

Hermione gaped—there was no other appropriate reaction. She wanted to say Narcissa was rebutting her bluff with a new one, but she could see—oh how plainly she could see—the blonde was telling her nothing but the truth. 

It made her happy, and then it made her incredibly sad. 

“I can’t,” she repeated, bringing a hand to her mouth to stop her sobs from being released from her chest. “I can’t do this.” 

Narcissa’s eyes turned sad. It was almost as if she had expected that exact answer, as if she had goaded Hermione into it because she _knew, _deep down... Hermione was a coward. 

“Can’t... or won’t?” 

Hermione couldn’t answer. 

* * *

“Weasley!” 

Hermione groaned, lifting her eyes from the paper she had been trying to read. Her eyes kept glazing over on the same damn line, over and over again, until she had to restart the whole thing because she had forgotten what she was reading. It had been six weeks since Narcissa had cornered her in her office—the last time she had seen the witch—and she still thought she could smell her perfume there. 

“Granger is fine,” she muttered by rote. A Department of Mysteries courier shrugged his shoulders, dropping a heavy packet onto her desk. “What is this?” 

“You’ve been reassigned.” He said nonchalantly, handing her a clipboard and quill. “This is your new casework—sign here please.” 

Hermione felt her stomach fall. “Reassigned? But why?” 

“Mrs. Malfoy requested someone else to work on her project. You’re off the case.” 

“B-but... But why?” she insisted, feeling dizzy. The boring beige walls of her office were spinning around her, and she could swear her vision was blurring at the edges. 

He simply shrugged again. “I don’t know, not my problem,” he retorted once he got her signature, leaving without another word. 

Hermione felt her chest tighten; it constricted her to such a point it became painful to draw breath. She rubbed at her eyes, trying to wipe away at the spots now clouding her vision, and she felt the moisture of tears pooling at her lids. 

She slammed her door on her way out, blinded by something that wasn’t quite rage—she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Before she knew it, she was storming down the corridor of the Department of Mysteries like a woman possessed. 

“Get me Narcissa Malfoy!” she hissed to the first receptionist she saw in the Unspeakable Area. The witch was quite young, looking not a day out of Hogwarts, and was clearly intimidated seeing the furious rage of Hermione Granger-Weasley, Brightest Witch of her Age. 

“Ah-ahem, w-well, Mrs. Weasley, I’m afraid you don’t have the clearance to...” 

“I beg your _fucking _pardon?” Hermione growled. “I was working on a project with her up until a few hours ago, and now you’re telling me I can’t even speak with her?” 

The young witch looked absolutely terrified. “I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley, I... You won’t be allowed in the Unspeakable Area without p-proper clearance.” 

Hermione felt her chest hurt with every rise and fall of her breathing. Being called ‘Mrs. Weasley’ was somehow the twisting of a knife in her gut. She was panting, winded by something that was not quite fury... No, this was hurt. Six weeks without hearing a single word from the blonde should have been hint enough, but she had idiotically clung to the false hope that maybe they could keep going as they were. 

She was under no such illusions now. 

* * *

It had been three months since she last saw Narcissa. Hermione had forced herself to conform to life as it would be for the rest of her days—was that not what one signed up for, when they married? Was that not the promise made at the altar? 

There had been no word from Narcissa in three long months. Not a note, not a whisper, ever since their confrontation in her office. Hermione still smarted over the utter rejection she had brought upon herself, but most of all, she anguished over the hurt that still gripped at her heart whenever her thoughts drifted to the other witch. 

It hurt often enough she sought to distract herself with boredom. 

She found excuses to stay at work for as long as a young mother could. She encouraged Ronald to leave and have fun with friends night after night—not that he needed much encouragement to begin with. Hermione found solace in the silence of her empty apartment on the weekends; she found a small measure of comfort in caring for her daughter, maybe even some peace in reading and rereading old favourites of hers. 

She was at home when the news broke. The owl from the afternoon edition of the _ Prophet _zoomed through her window in a flurry of feathers and squawks; she hardly had the chance to pay the bird before it took off for another delivery. 

Hermione dropped her teacup, sent it shattering onto the linoleum of her kitchen when she read the unbelievable headline in big, bold letters. 

_ MALFOY DIVORCE: FORMER DEATH-EATER SERVED PAPERS BEHIND BARS! _

She fell heavily onto her chair, grasping at the paper in utter disbelief. The picture showed Narcissa—the first glimpse Hermione had of her in three agonizing months—leaving the Ministry, head held high, being swarmed by a horde of reporters. The flashes reflected off her grey eyes, glittering the black and white picture with light. 

Hermione stared for what felt like a whole eternity. Narcissa stood victorious, eyes burning through the camera as if issuing a challenge. 

“Bloody hell.” 

* * *

She told Ronald. 

It had been eating away at her ever since news of the Malfoy divorce came out; the itching to become untethered—as untethered as she could with a child between them. If Narcissa had gone through the immense trouble and scrutiny of undoing the ancient magical bond used in Pureblood marriages, Hermione could stomach this. It was as if something clicked within her, the unshakable feeling of being shackled to a life she did not want. 

She decided it would be worth it, even if Narcissa did not want her back. She was desperately unhappy. 

It was ugly. There was screaming—lots of it, enough to wake Rose in a crying fit. There were accusations—all of which Hermione confirmed, laying the previous months out on the table for Ron to see. 

She felt absolutely wretched hurting him in this way. She laid it all bare, not sparing a single detail, and it hurt her—deeply—to see the bewilderment in his eyes, the lack of understanding in how such a thing had come to pass. It hurt to see his saddened eyes processing her betrayal. 

They parted ways—she let him keep the apartment, she let him keep and take whatever he wanted, in a futile attempt to smooth over her deception. Custody arrangements were made—with lots of threats, lots of tears, but eventually an agreement was reached, one that would allow Hermione to keep seeing and raising her daughter. 

She avoided the Weasleys and the Potters for a while—she gave them space to try to process everything. She had hopes to be forgiven, but they needed time to come to terms with the bitter divorce. 

Her new apartment was a rental—a studio, close to the Ministry and barely furnished with the bare necessities. She missed her books; she had only taken a case with her. Hermione counted the days until the divorce was finalized, and once the owl finally arrived with the notice, she Apparated straight to Wiltshire—directly to Malfoy Manor. 

* * *

It wasn’t Narcissa who opened the door, but Draco. To her complete befuddlement, he did not look surprised to see her—it was almost as if he had been expecting her. 

She saw a rolled up _ Prophet _under his arm; it announced her divorce—using a rather unflattering picture. His brow was quirked, and his lips were pressed into a thin line in an expression she could not quite decipher. 

“She’s not here,” he said flatly. 

A gust of her breath left her lungs. “Where...” 

“Vienna.” 

* * *

Hermione thought she would find her at the library they visited—or at least at the same hotel where they had stayed the last time they had been in the city—but she found Narcissa completely by chance, sitting at one of the outdoor tables in one of the many little cafes at Stephansplatz, in the Muggle part of town. 

She was a vision, wearing a dark green, flowy dress and white heels; a wide-brimmed hat was perched on the back of a free chair next to her small table. She was drinking coffee, sitting elegantly with her legs crossed at the ankle, and Hermione’s heart just swelled at the sight before her. 

Hermione approached with no particular plan in mind—she was flying with no direction, drifting towards what her heart wanted most. 

“Out for a little holiday, Mrs. Weasley?” 

Her voice—Hermione realised now how afraid she had been with the possibility of never hearing it again. 

“Granger,” she said, wiping at an errant tear. “Just Granger.” 

Narcissa looked at her over her coffee cup, red lips hovering over the porcelain rim. “I know,” she whispered. Hermione’s gaze wavered to a neatly folded morning edition of _ The Prophet— _the very same Draco had rolled under his arm that very morning. 

“I didn’t know you could get _ The Daily Prophet _in Vienna.” Hermione quipped, awed by the situation, by the very conversation they were having as if that last encounter in her office had never happened; as if they had not completely avoided one another for months on end. 

Narcissa shrugged in that elegant way only she was capable of. “I pay for special delivery.” Her She sipped at her coffee, shimmering blue gaze meeting Hermione’s. “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

The unspoken invitation to take a seat was there; Hermione took it. She wanted to hold Narcissa’s hands in her own, to lean over and brush their lips together. Longing filled her chest, spilling over into tears—happy ones. 

“I didn’t know if I would come.” She said honestly. 

Narcissa set her cup down; a hand snaked across the table to grasp Hermione’s. “I did.” 

Hermione laughed wryly. “You put far too much faith in me.” 

Narcissa smiled—it tugged at her lips and brightened the whole plaza with it. “No,” she said, squeezing Hermione’s hand tighter in her own. “Just the right amount.” 

* * *

It didn’t feel wrong anymore. 

If anything, it felt just as freeing, just as cathartic—but now, it felt easy. For the first time, they could take their time; they could languish in one another, savour each moment, each touch, prolonging their pleasure for as long as they wanted. 

There were things Hermione could now experience in a whole new light—how the urgency of Narcissa’s touches became a methodical exploration, how the flush of her cheeks extended downwards and dappled her chest with pink. She noticed new places that elicited new tremors, new shivers, and she worked at them with something that surpassed simple desire. 

It was devotion, it was—dare she think it—it was love. 

They languished in Narcissa’s hotel bed for what seemed like days—the sun rose and set through the suite’s ornamental glass windows. Hermione did not want to leave—she did not want to have Narcissa away from her, not for another second. 

She rested her head upon the blonde’s lap, lazing under the rays of the afternoon sun while Narcissa played with her hair. 

“Narcissa?” 

The hands in her hair stopped. “Yes, darling?” 

Hermione breathed in deeply, feeling the soothing rhythm of her heart, now whole again. “I love you.” 

She could practically feel Narcissa’s smirk. 

“I know.” 


End file.
